


I Will Need You Forever

by Black_Calliope



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Episode: s02e22 Ua Hopu (Caught), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:57:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Calliope/pseuds/Black_Calliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It goes on for long minutes, Danny observing Steve as Steve’s eyes caress every inch of his house, taking in the small changes made during his absence, reading the story of Danny’s lonely days spent in here while he was away.</p><p>“You moved back in,” Steve finally says, breaking the silence.</p><p>His voice makes Danny shudder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Need You Forever

It’s almost dawn when Steve and Danny get home. Between the palm trees, the sky is tinted in that strong mix of dark blue and yellow that Danny has often stared into in the last past days, colors blending and blurring as he would get lost in thoughts.

The rumble of the waves crashing onto the shore it’s the only noise filling the humid, heavy morning air and, for the first time in days, Danny isn’t alone. Two are the car doors closing in unison and familiar is the sound of steps resonating behind him.

The wooden floor screeches under Danny’s feet as he doesn't head to their usual spot on Steve's lanai, to the familiar wood bench that has seen many sunsets with them, but instead walks right towards the front door. They don't need to be there in the open, where there is too much air to breathe, too much space to think, what they need is silence and an enclosed space, where their emotions will be restrained by physical boundaries, where they can be themselves without getting lost.

So Danny leads the way to the old, comfortable couch in Steve's living room, the one that he managed to stain with barbecue sauce within his first week as a Five-0 and that Steve still bitches about from time to time – because _God only knows what they put in there, Danny!_ – and that he never managed to perfectly clean. He sits on it, watches silently as Steve dumps his almost empty duffle bag in a corner and takes a look around.

The house isn’t how he left it; tidy and dark, ready to wait for as long as it took to its owner to take care of his business. On one of the desks there is a pile of Danny’s shirt threatening to fall down at any second and a few pair of suit pants are placed on a chair nearby, a handful of familiar ties hanging by the back of it. Danny watches Steve as his eyes wander elsewhere, over the red, familiar toolbox sitting right on the other desk, maps, cards and notes scattered all around it on the woody surface.

It goes on for long minutes, Danny observing Steve as Steve’s eyes caress every inch of his house, taking in the small changes made during his absence, reading the story of Danny’s lonely days spent in here while he was away.

“You moved back in,” Steve finally says, breaking the silence.

His voice makes Danny shudder. He’s gone too long without hearing it. “Shitty apartment versus sea view villa, doesn’t seem a hard choice to me,” he replies. He doesn’t correct Steve, doesn’t specify that it’s temporary; he won’t even dare to approach that field, because that decision isn’t his to make.

Steve nods but doesn’t reply. He glances one last time to the various pairs of classic shoes neatly aligned beside an old umbrella stand, and then finally walks to the couch where Danny’s been sitting on. The cadence of his steps is slow but not guarded, and when his body finally finds the softness of the cushions he reclines his head on the back of the couch and almost closes his eyes, watching Danny behind long, dark lashes.

“Seems like you managed to not burn the house down, too,” he snorts, an impudent smile curving his lips. Danny rolls his eyes in reply.

Steve doesn’t say _thank you_ , they don’t do this, but Danny hears it anyway in the way Steve takes his time to pronounce each word, lets them easily roll out of his mouth as if he has all the time in the world. And even if Danny couldn’t, it’s written all over the relaxed lines of Steve’s face, in the way he is sitting beside him, hands abandoned on his lap; way too different from the Commander McGarrett that had jumped off a black helicopter just a few hours ago, gun in his hand and mind ready to fight whoever stepped on his path.

Danny rests one arm on the back of the couch, turns his body towards Steve, like a hummingbird drawn to a juicy, poison-sweet flower. “I should burn _you_ down,” he murmurs, his smirk mirroring the one on Steve’s face. It’s reassuring, it’s homely in a way nothing has been in the past days, and it’s enough for Danny.

Thing is, he didn’t miss Steve. Not in the proper sense of the word, at least. The truth is that in the last two weeks Steve has been the dreading absence clawing at Danny’s chest, the thing he could feel that _wasn’t there_ every time he breathed, every single time his ribcage pushed against the emptiness inside of him, crushing that heart that, _still_ , stubborn, had kept pumping blood into his veins. Danny has _needed_ Steve to be back.

Even now, with the pale light of the early morning filtering between the cotton of the curtains and projecting itself on Steve’s handsome, tired face- now that he should be pushing Steve upstairs, should be replying to each one of his phrases with a _“tomorrow, babe”_ , he can’t bring himself to do any of these things, can’t bring himself to lose sight of Steve again, not even for a few hours.

“Missed you.”

It tumbles out of his mouth before Danny can realize it, words dancing in the air like powdery, sinuous snakes, and he can see the exact moment they coil on Steve’s belly, seeping into him as he fully opens his eyes and just _looks_ at Danny.

Dark shadows are circling Steve’s eyes and – even if he’s taken a brief shower at the HPD – he has the aspect of someone who could use one or two months of rest; still, when he sets his eyes into Danny’s, they are full awake and intent. “It had to be done, Danny,” he says, voice calm but not fully serene. There is no trace of exhaustion in it, and Danny understands that he isn’t talking about Wo Fat, that this isn’t about his duty as a SEAL and as a man. No, for once after months, this is about _them_. “And if you think that I didn’t-”

“I know you did,” Danny interrupts him. He knows, because he’s felt the same damn way. “Doesn’t change much, though.”

In front of him, Steve frowns, disappoint and something resembling mortification painting all over his face. His eyes darken and, when he speaks again, the corners of his mouth are curled downwards. “Danny,” he starts.

Danny inhales, deep and slow. He knows that he was the one bringing it up, knows that they’ll need to talk about this sooner or later, but- He just doesn’t think that he can do this right now, not after the day they both have just had.

That’s why he closes his eyes, breaking the eye contact, and then gets up from the couch. “Look, this is not the time, I should let you get some sleep-” he stops mid-sentence when Steve grabs his wrist, long fingers closing around it with familiarity, burning open scars that Danny thought would’ve healed by now.

“Danny.” Steve repeats. It’s reverent, and it sounds _so much_ like a plea that Danny can’t do anything but sit back on the couch, one of his knee bumping Steve’s thigh as he does so.

He can’t leave Steve. Like a planet orbiting around the sun, brushing against the dangerous flames that it’s made of, Danny’s life revolves around the feeble, delicate balance that they’ve reached. He can’t let it crumble down now, he won’t. But- “It isn’t the right time for this,” he murmurs.

Steve places his hand against Danny’s jaw, light and warm and _so real_ , holds his gaze as he speaks. “There hasn’t been any day- Nothing could make me forget- And when you called me. I wanted to hear your voice, Danny. _I needed to_ ,” he whispers against Danny’s lips, his phrases broken almost as much as the look in his eyes.

There is something inside there that makes Danny’s heart clench in recognition, something that matches Steve’s look with the one he’d found staring back at him from the bathroom mirror almost every morning in the last two weeks. He closes his eyes, opening his mouth to Steve’s kisses as Steve pushes himself up against him, hands caressing Danny’s neck as his teeth sink into Danny’s bottom lip, tongue slowly exploring Danny’s mouth as he groans and breaks once again.

“Don’t do this to me ever again,” Danny whispers between kisses, feeling the compact muscles of Steve’s shoulders under his palms, the way the tendons in his neck stretch and shift as he moves down with his mouth to Danny’s chin, and down again, nipping at the soft skin covering his Adam’s apple. His eyes are half-closed, intent, and when he shifts, mumbles against Danny’s ear – _“Never again.”_ – his hands are already unfastening the buttons of Danny’s wrinkled, practically ruined for good, shirt.

They are both sleep deprived and high on so much caffeine that it’s a miracle they can still manage to form coherent thoughts, still, that doesn’t keep Danny from sliding his hands under Steve’s shirt, running them up his spine, nails engraving red, desperate lines into his skin.

“No more leaving, no more- Fuck- No more old-fashioned, hand-written notes. I forbid you. Not even if the president himself-” the rest of Danny’s phrase gets lost into Steve’s mouth as he kisses him once again, hands efficiently working on Danny’s belt.

Danny moans, eager, hands joining Steve’s in the attempt to help but ending just being in the way. “Be quiet,” Steve says, pinning them on the cushion beside Danny’s thighs before returning to what he was doing.

Steve looks at Danny, drinks up every single detail of his face, starting from the thin, pale wrinkles around his eyes, down to his red, wet lips, shining with spit in the dim light of the morning. His skin looks even more pale compared to them, even if his beard is starting to show and- He stops, interdict, focuses his gaze on Danny’s right cheek, where, half-hidden by his stubble, there is a dark, yellowish shadow. A bruise.

In the blink of an eye, any other task gets discarded from Steve’s mind as his hands fly on Danny’s face, fingers pressing into skin as he angles his partner’s face towards the light. "Who?” he growls. “Who did this to you? Who touched you?"

And in a second something surges inside Danny’s chest and makes him want to hit Steve. Makes him want to scream that you, _you_ did this to me! You left and I didn’t know what to do and _you turned me into a reckless man who can’t bear the thought of living his life without you_. But as well as he can feel the words pushing to get free, Danny knows that they would hurt a part of Steve that it’s already raw and bleeding, that part of him that knows what a family is but can’t remember how being part of one was, the part that keeps tiptoeing around his emotions like a kid around a starving lion. Pronouncing these words would mean breaking Steve in a way Danny promised to himself he never would.

Steve is the one who has put this loaded gun into Danny’s hand; he did it with each one of his trusting looks, with every single, rare smile or confession, and Danny didn’t realize it until now- He didn’t understand how much power Steve put in his hands until he found himself incapable of pulling the trigger.

It’s such a sudden, terrifying realization and it freezes the blood in Danny’s veins, makes him shudder despite the heat of Steve’s body pressed against his. So many words are trying to push their way out of his throat, clawing at tender skin and screaming in rebellion. And they are filled with so much bitterness, so much love and worry that for a moment Danny is afraid that he’ll really hurt Steve, will really break him into a multitude of prismatic, ink-black pieces. But instead- “Who did this to- Look at you!” he almost yells, because that’s simply madness. “You are the one with cuts all over his face. _You_ are the one that survived a plane crash, got lost in the jungle with a multiple murderer and defeated a herd of yakuza killers by himself. And you are asking me who gave me a _bruise_?!”

But Steve is looking intensely at him, eyebrows curved in a way that speaks by itself. _I won’t recede_. “I’m serious, Danny,” he says, voice falsely calm. “Who hit you?”

Danny can almost see it, the thin, fragile thread of Steve’s patience, vibrating like an unusual violin cord inside Steve’s chest, tensing more and more as Danny makes him wait, seconds stretching and changing form, shaping into short intakes of air and slow, steady heartbeats. "Actually, that's classified," Danny eventually says.

Steve blinks. Probably thinking that it's a joke, that Danny is fucking with him just to get a stupid, childish revenge, he doesn't- can't imagine the smashing horror that had almost overwhelmed Danny when he'd thought that Steve was in danger, that Steve could be _dead_.

If possible, Steve frowns deepens. “Danny,” he warns, anger dancing around the edges of his tone like a shark rounding its prey.

And just like a wave, powerful and dazzling white, at last Danny’s emotions swallow him whole, as he pushes Steve away, hands flat on his muscular, solid chest. "You think- Do you think I care about this?" he says, and his tone is like sandpaper on flesh. "You were halfway across the world, Steve! And I didn't- They implied that you were dead! Have you any idea of what _that_ did to me?"

Now that the weir is broken, it seems that Danny’s word can’t stop flooding, as he pushes Steve’s hands away and tries to get a hold of his shoulders at the same time. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore, doesn’t know what he is _supposed_ to do, the only thing he can see and breathe is Steve; his proximity like a vicious, sugary drug, flooding inside his veins with the same constancy of a river going towards a fall.

They tumble off the couch in a mess of arms and legs, Steve’s body cushioning Danny’s brief fall and keeping him from rolling away. Danny can feel Steve’s ribcage rising and sinking under the push of his lungs, can feel the was Steve’s blood is pumping fast when he presses his lips against Steve’s carotid, buries his face into the safe, familiar crook of Steve’s neck and just breaths in. Steve is so _alive_ under him, hot and real and a million other things that seep into Danny’s skin like ink on a blank parchment. “Here,” Danny sighs, meaning more than any speech could ever express with a single, fleeting word.

Steve’s hands find their place around Danny’s chest, enclosing him in a perfect universe ruled only by Steve’s regular, beloved heartbeats. “Yes,” he replies, just a muffled sound against Danny’s hair. “You are safe now. We both are.”

Maybe it’s the tone in Steve’s voice, or the way his long legs are brushing against Danny’s, or perhaps again is the way his fingers find their way up Danny’s spine, gently sinking between his hair, but something unlocks inside Danny and, for the first time in two weeks, the weight in his chest finally lifts, leaving behind a large, empty space that Steve will soon easily fill.

They fall asleep like that, bodies pressed against one another on the carpet of Steve’s living room, the sun outside the windows already high on the horizon and slowly stretching his rays out towards the zenith.

A new day. A new dream. _Home_.


End file.
